


Dread

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: A LOT OF TORTURE, And character death, Community: 15genres1prompt, Gen, Prompt: Candles, Sorry Not Sorry, and sad times, five times fic, please don't read if you're expecting a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6949306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written back in 2012 for 15genres1prompt (livejournal).   Five Times Red John could have killed members of the team. RJ/TL</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dread

**Author's Note:**

> I'm horrible at this cross-posting stuff, buuuuut, I always eventually get around to posting something. Enjoy!

i—

Teresa Lisbon can’t take her eyes off the sealed casket, as she watches it being lowered six-feet into the ground. Danny Ruskin stands next to her in silence, and she tries to remember their last meeting but her memory blanks, and she’s not entirely too sure if it’s because it was a long time ago, or if her mind is purposely protecting her from remembering.

Her eyes remain dry, her hands are clasped together, and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. Nobody says anything to her about it though, and she doubts Jane would have said anything about it either…the service, however, is a completely different story, because she has absolutely no doubts that Jane would have pitched a fit at the church, and the colorful funeral arrangements.

She almost smiles, until she remembers that it’s uncouth to smile at a funeral service.

*

“I found your body, and Danny insisted on the flower arrangements,” she whispers to the smooth gravestone, which is surrounded by freshly mounted dirt and a bright flower or two. “I told him you wouldn’t approve, but he seemed to think that you enjoyed the bagpipes.” She laughs softly, and the tears are still not coming; she briefly wonders why, because she feels immensely depressed, exhausted, weathered, and beaten down (as does the rest of her team, who all stand behind her and suffer silently from the loss of a friend). “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you. I don’t even know what I’m going to do without you, Jane.” She blinks, and before she can completely stop herself, she is speaking again. “Red John left you for me on my doorstep. Your body was so badly mangled, and…” she bates her breath. “…I saw the smiley face first. I saw it on my mailbox, and I felt dread.”

She doesn’t continue. It’s too raw, too fresh within her mind to describe.

“We’ll kill him, boss.” Van Pelt swears, quietly. “Jane was one of us.”

Lisbon only shivers in the Californian heat.

ii—

“Grace? Is everything okay?”

It’s midafternoon, and Wayne Rigsby becomes concerned when Grace Van Pelt abruptly stops the SUV on the side of the road. She doesn’t say anything to him, and he briefly wonders if he should call Lisbon, at least to tell her that they’re having car problems. Van Pelt unbuckles her seatbelt without one word, Jane is drowsing in the backseat (for he missed a ride with Lisbon, because he pissed off another super important person) and Rigsby has a feeling that something isn’t quite right.

“I’m going to call the boss, okay?” Van Pelt still says nothing, and he reaches out to gingerly touch her hand. “Okay?” She slowly turns her face toward him, and he can almost immediately see that her face is blank with emotion, and her pupils are completely dilated. “Did you take something before work, Grace?” He knows that she has been having problems sleeping lately, because she has been sleeping more and more on their late night stakeouts together. It is O’Laughlin’s fault, Rigsby thinks as he waits for Van Pelt to answer his burning question.

“No.”

The cold answer that comes from her mouth is enough to send chills up his spine, and Jane’s voice pipes up from the backseat.

“If we’re having car problems, I suggest that somebody go fix them.”

Rigsby doesn’t voice his worries to Jane, but instead pulls out his phone and sends the consultant a quick text.

Jane responds almost immediately.

“Grace?” Jane calls. Van Pelt doesn’t turn her head to stare at him, she merely blinks in response. “Grace? Can you turn around and look at me?” She nods, and turns to glance at him. 

“Of course,” she replies.

“You look tired, Grace.” Jane calmly tells her.

It’s then that Rigsby’s phone vibrates, and he discreetly glances down at it.

She’s been hypnotized. Draw your gun.

Rigsby furrows his brows. Hypnotism didn’t exist, even if everybody said he had been hypnotized once before but he went for his weapon anyway.

“I wouldn’t even do that, Agent Rigsby.” Grace warns, coldly. Rigsby glances up from his weapon, to find that Van Pelt has her weapon pointed straight at his head. Jane doesn’t say a word. “We’re going to take a little walk.” Rigsby quickly undoes his seatbelt, and allows Van Pelt to take his gun—their only form of protection, and he can’t help but feel dread. “You too, Mr. Jane.”

It’s something about her phrasing that reminds him of Red John, but apparently Jane has already figured that out, because he’s trying to save them both.

“Grace? Listen to me…”

She doesn’t listen.

iii—

“I can’t do anything until after twenty-four hours,” Lisbon remarks to Kimball Cho, who merely glances up from the paperback book he has been reading with a sharp nod. He knows he doesn’t need to tell Lisbon why he thinks it’s usual for Rigsby not to show up to work without calling in sick, and although the entire unit is on edge, they both say nothing further to address the worry that is building up within the pits of their stomachs, as she heads back into her own office.

Jane seems unaffected on his couch, but something is troubling the consultant—most likely, their current Red John case, and that is another reason why Cho fears something bad has happened to Rigsby.

In normal cases, nobody assumes that something bad has happened.

In Red John cases, going missing never equals anything good.

“Do you think he’s just sick?” Van Pelt questions from her desk.

Cho shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Grace.” Jane speaks up. “Rigsby is probably out getting coffee for Lisbon.”

“He’s not answering his phone,” Van Pelt frowns. Cho doesn’t say anything, but he finds that slightly strange. Rigsby loved Van Pelt, why would he ignore her calls? Cho glances at Jane, and immediately, he can tell that they’re thinking the same thing. “Are you sure he’ll be fine?”

Cho nods, and lies. “Yeah.”

They never do find Rigsby.

iv—

“And this,” Red John hisses, as the masked serial killer hovers over Cho’s nonmoving body with a leather whip dangling in his hands, “is for not screaming earlier!” The whip comes crashing down upon bare skin, and Grace Van Pelt tries to turn her head—but O’Laughlin holds her head steady, and forces her to watch in the dim candlelight. It’s a sick, twisted form of punishment, and all Grace wants to do is vomit. “How many times is that now, Gracie?”

Van Pelt shudders against her strong hold, and O’Laughlin shakes her. It adds a new dimension to torture, making her count each strike that falls upon her co-workers, bleeding and battered body. His face is turned away from hers, and in the silence, she can hear nothing but O’Laughlin’s laughs and Red John’s taunting calls. She is silent for another moment, when the whip cracks down upon her right leg and she howls in pain.

“I wouldn’t have to hurt you, if you’d just tell me how many.” Red John responds. Grace remains silent, and Red John chuckles. “If you wanted to be tortured, why didn’t you just say so?” Red John nods, and O’Laughlin shoves her forward onto Cho’s body.

Cho doesn’t move, and Red John speaks again. “Feel for a heartbeat, Gracie.”

Gingerly, she does.

There isn’t one.

v—

“He doesn’t love you, Lisbon.” Patrick Jane tells her, as she has her gun trained on him within the seedy motel room, just thirty minutes outside Sacramento, California. “He’s going to kill you, like he’s killed the others!” Lisbon doesn’t say anything in response, and Jane wonders how he never saw it coming.

Lisbon had problems; her mother dead, her father dead, Bosco dead, her brothers not talking to her, everybody leaving her, and the fact that he continued to put her career on the line—but he had never thought, for one second, that Lisbon would join Red John—let alone fall in love with the bastard.

“He killed my wife and child, Lisbon.” Jane tries to reason with her, but she continues to reload her weapon. “He killed Bosco.” Lisbon says nothing. “You can’t be in love with a serial killer.”

“He’s a misunderstood man,” Lisbon explains.

“And Minelli said I was giving you Kool-Aid.” Jane mutters. Lisbon narrows her eyes, and levels her gun on him. “You’re going to kill me?”

“I have absolutely nothing against you, Jane.” Lisbon continues to explain. “But, you can’t live. It was decided by…”

“Your master, right?” Jane sarcastically throws, Lisbon says nothing. “He’s going to kill you, as soon as you kill me.”

Lisbon snorts. “He loves me.”

“No, Lisbon.” Jane repeats, softly. “He doesn’t, and you’re a fool to believe it.” Lisbon places her finger on the trigger.

“I’m sorry, Jane.”

She pulls the trigger, he falls to the floor and her body joins his, several moments later.


End file.
